


You and Me and All Other People

by Alley_Skywalker



Series: You and Me [1]
Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: 19th Century, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Duelling, Love Triangles, M/M, Non-Graphic Sex, Pre-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes years for Fyodor Dolokhov to figure out what he really wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and Me and All Other People

**Author's Note:**

> Hi *waves* So this is a treat that sort of exploded. I'm a little nervous because I'm not certain if you and I have the same vision of the characters but I was just too excited to NOT write this :D
> 
> Thank you to Orla and thedarklurker for the French translation.
> 
> The title owes itself to the Lifehouse song "You and Me"

 

The September day is far too warm and bright for Anatole’s mood. He stands watching as his things are loaded into the back of the carriage and strapped in. Helene stands a few feet away with their parents, watching the footmen as they struggle with one of the trunks. Anatole fidgets and watches the road instead. He’s glancing at his new pocket watch from time to time, trying to not be nervous. Fyodor always keeps his word, after all. But it is ten past eleven and he was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.

 

“Anatole, was it really necessary for you to pack _all_ your clothes?” Helene teases, a slight smirk curving the corners of her mouth upwards.

 

“I did not pack all my—“ He is in the middle of protesting when the sound of hooves on the road makes him spin around and put one hand over his eyes to block out the sun. “Fyodor!”

 

The young man riding up to the Kuragins’ house is in his late teens. He is handsome and tall with curly brown hair that frames his sharply defined features, and magnetic, bright blue eyes. He’s dressed sharply and neatly but the tailcoat is out of style and the boots are old. He waves to Anatole with one hand, reigning in the horse with the other. “Sorry I’m late!” Fyodor calls, not looking one bit miffed. “Got held up. Good to see you’re not off yet.”

 

He hands his horse to one of the footmen and walks to Anatole, clapping the younger boy’s shoulder amicably. Anatole beams. “Prince Kuragin, Princess.” Fyodor bows to the parents, then seems to forget them completely. Anatole soon notices that his friend is watching Helene closely. Fyodor likes the way her strawberry-blonde hair curls over her ears and forehead in soft wisps; her fashionable French hat is tiny on the top of her head, presenting a delectable sight. Really, Helene looks very much like her brother.   

 

Anatole watches for a moment, before asking, a bit petulantly, “Will you write, Fyodor?”

 

The older boy looks over and regards him coolly. “Sure. Although, I’m certain you’ll have more to say in your letters than I.”

 

Anatole looks up at him with searching grey eyes. His features are still those of a child – soft and angelic, brightly innocent. “I’ll write if you do.” His eyelashes flutter and his cheeks color with a soft, embarrassed pink. He prays to God his parents aren’t listening. Helene is watching him with her eyebrows slightly raised in delicate arches. Fyodor just laughs and ruffles his hair. Anatole isn’t even thirteen but the patronizing superiority in that gesture bothers him. He doesn’t want Fyodor to think of him as he would of a child, though he is not quite sure why that is. Or perhaps he does know but doesn’t understand it – the tender, melting feeling that makes his heart swell every time they are within twenty feet of each other.  

 

“Anatole, they’re ready for you,” his father calls, glancing over to where the two boys are standing together. Anatole nods thoughtfully, then turns to Fyodor and smiles brightly. “I think I’ll like Paris. You should come and visit me some time.”

 

Fyodor scoffs. “I’ve got better ideas for my money.”

 

Anatole’s smile fades but he shrugs innocently. He knows Fyodor doesn’t mean it offensively, just that the Dolokhovs don’t have much to spare. “Well, farewell then.”

 

“Farewell. Do good on your studies.”

 

Anatole makes a face. “My father tells me that all the time. Must you be just as annoying?”

 

Fyodor laughs and gives the boy a slight push forward. “Yes. It’s for your own good.”

 

Anatole says his goodbyes to his family and clambers into the carriage. “Goodbye!” he calls, waving enthusiastically as he sticks his head out of the window, searching for Fyodor’s eyes as he does so. But Fyodor merely gives him a slight wave and turns his attention to Helene. He is sixteen, after all, and doesn’t stop to consider that Anatole’s childish hero worship night have developed a new layer of meaning over the past summer.  

 

*

 

Fyodor stays to talk to Helene for another half an hour after Anatole drives away. _She will become a very beautiful woman,_ he thinks, and wonders at his lack of feeling at the thought. He admires her beauty, her inexperienced but fiery attempts to reach for the sky, for power, but some part of him regards her more as a friend than a woman. He has a hard time admiring women but he admires _her_ ; perhaps the catch lies in that. He has already realized he has longings of another sort but sees them more as indulgences. Nothing serious could possibly come of affairs such as those, so he doesn’t assign them much meaning.

 

As the sky begins to darken, heavy clouds floating overhead to obscure the sun, leaving only scattered patches of faded, cerulean blue, Helene goes inside, making the excuse that she does not want to get caught by the rain. Fyodor rides home, his thoughts preoccupied with trivialities until he sees the unfamiliar carriage parked outside the house. The footman is dressed like a dandy and the rich design of the carriage suggests that the owner is some influential figure. Fyodor frowns and, handing his horse to a servant boy, heads inside, hat in hand.

 

His mother’s voice comes floating through the hall to him from the drawing room. She is speaking quickly and quietly, a baritone male voice answers her irritably. His sister is stood at the closed double doors, one ear pressed against the wood, listening with a pinched expression. “Galina, what is going on?” he asks, hanging up his coat and hat.  

 

She purses her lips further and says in a half-whisper, “Creditors again.”

 

“But we paid all the debts!”

 

“Hush they’ll hear you!” She makes a shushing movement at him. “Yes, but you know how we’ve been living by loan lately. Mamma says it is a vicious cycle.”

 

Fyodor stands looking at her, expression pensive and eyes half closed as he thinks the words over, turning them from one side to the other in his head. “How much does he want?”

 

“A couple thousand.”

 

“A couple thousand!” Something in Fyodor’s eyes flares and he can feel himself falling into scarlet oblivion. Galina rushes toward him and grabs his arm. In the small, dim hallway her face is obscured by dancing shadows and he can not make out her large, pleading eyes. She is saying something but he can’t hear her. “He doesn’t need those couple thousand! Have you seen how his man servant is dressed? Couple thousand! What could they possibly do for a man like him? …Mother. How is she handling this?”

 

Galina shrugs, still clinging to his arm. “She’s upset but there is nothing she can do. If he wants the money now, then he wants it now.”

 

Fyodor wrenches his arm away from her hold and turns on his heal, running for the door. Galina calls after him and takes several steps forward but the skirt of her dress catches and she is forced to steady herself against the wall as not to fall. By the time she has righted herself her brother has gone. She walks slowly to the window, twisting the ribbons of her faded bonnet wit one hand and presses the other against the cool glass, trying to make out Fyodor’s figure beyond the gate despite the torrent of raindrops. She presses her forehead to the glass and closes her eyes, biting down on her lips at the sound of distant thunder. “Don’t do anything foolish,” she whispers to the empty silence.

 

*

 

Rain pours down in heavy sheets of water. The streets become makeshift rivers, drowning in the downpour. They are mostly deserted aside from a few stragglers running under umbrellas in haste to make it inside and avoid the nastiness of the weather. Fyodor’s boots make thick splashing sounds as he sloshes through the streets, running blindly in no particular direction. The cold rain stings his face and arms, seeps through his clothes making the fabric stick to his skin and itch. He is still running, running from the humiliation of his mother having to beg for payment extensions and the humiliation of being in dept to someone and owing someone something. He runs from the pain of knowing how fashionable Anatole’s sister’s dresses are and how plain and old Galina’s are in comparison. He runs from the pain of knowing that Anatole will study in Paris while he had been thrown into the hands of careless tutors because there was no money to hire better ones.

 

When Fyodor comes to Pavlovsky’s place, he stops his dash through the rain toward answers that he doesn’t know where and when to find. He looks up at the invitingly glowing windows, imagining the feast and Champaign fountains that await inside. Here, the drinks come free and so do the boys. At a pub, the alcohol is never free or even cheap, not to mention the girls.

 

Fyodor pushes the door open and makes to enter when he runs headlong into another tall, male figure a couple or so years older than him. Fyodor recognizes the man almost instantly: Andrei Bolkonski, the son of the man who had killed his father in a duel. As well as an obnoxious, rich snob and a self-righteous idiot, as far as Fyodor is concerned. “What are you doing here, Bolkonski?” Fyodor asks, the corners of his mouth curling upwards into some hybrid of a sneer and a smirk. “Come looking for pleasure?”

 

Andrei flushes with either embarrassment or anger. Either way, Fyodor knows he has found a chord to thrum if the time comes. “None of your business, Dolokhov,” Bolkonski snaps, growling the words through his teeth.

 

The rain continues to fall around them as they glower at each other, Fyodor savoring the feeling of animosity he bears for this man. “Of course it’s not,” he says back in a fake, sugary tone, that suggest a very different thought process. Bolkonski only sneers and walks away but Fyodor watches him go, wondering if he was here by accident or if the proud Andrei Bolkonski actually had a connection to the affairs that occurred at Pavlovsky’s nightly. Not that it would ever change the fact that they can’t stand each other.

 

*

 

Fyodor is soaked by the time he makes his way through the hall and dinning room into the back where the night’s card game has already begun. Servant boys silently slip in and out of the room with bottles and glasses. Everyone is far too drunk to notice him, so he sidles to the back of the room and watches carefully the new dealer handling a crisp deck of cards.

 

Fyodor does not recognize the young dealer and his interest is peaked. He watches the way the young man handles the cards, sliding them from one hand to the other as he shuffles them with an extraordinary speed. There is something almost professional in the way he watches the other players and deals the cards, his hands and movements untraceable. Fyodor watches with a sense of rising excitement. He can tell a sharper when he sees one. He watches the first round and the second, noticing that the man wins every time. Fyodor takes a glass from one of the passing servants and sips at the stinging, bubbling liquid, his mind already forming a plan. The cards flash before his eyes and the sound of rusting bills and clinging coins fills his ears. His heart swells and his hopes rise. _There is a way out, there is a way out._

*

 

“I saw you playing.”

 

“Oh? I’m Kozlov, by the way.”

 

Fyodor smirks and sits by the dealer on the low sofa, handing him one of the glasses of wine he is holding, sipping at the other himself. “You deal well.” Fyodor gives him a meaningful look.

 

Kozlov raises his eyebrows slightly, then looks around a bit wearily. No one is paying them any attention. The gypsies have arrived and begun their trademark chorus of smooth female voices blending in un-polished harmony. “Thank you.”

 

Fyodor smirks and throws one leg over the other easily. “Where did you learn?”

 

“Oh, one place or another.” Kozlov is watching him wearily but with some interest. His dark eyes are sharp and Fyodor feels slightly uncomfortable under their scrutiny but he doesn’t let himself show it.

 

“Do you think…you could teach me?”

 

Kozlov laughs and leans back against the sofa pillows. He watches the gypsies as they writhe and bend in their wild dance. The music is load but they can still speak quietly and hear one another. “Perhaps. Depends on your talents...and willingness to share.”

 

“What are we talking?” Fyodor asks, a sharp, bargaining edge slipping into his voice.

 

“Fifty percent of your first twenty winnings.”

 

Fyodor sips at the wine, watching the gypsies, bright blue eyes slightly unfocused as he thinks. “First fifteen winnings. But I’ll give you sixty percent instead.”

 

Kozlov smirks and raises his glass in a cheers gesture. “I like the way you think, boy.” He drinks then gives Fyodor his card. “My place tomorrow at seven.”

 

Fyodor looks at the card, then tucks it away into a pocket with a slight nod. He stands and sets his glass aside. “Pleasure meeting you.” He turns to go with a confident smirk drifting onto his face. He will finally be doing something.

 

“What’s your name, kid?”

 

Fyodor looks over his shoulder, the smirk growing. “Dolokhov.”

 

*~*

 

Anatole writes a letter a day. It helps him deal with the initial waves of homesickness. He can write as many as four letters in one day, but there will always be one for Fyodor. He takes the time to describe in obnoxious detail all aspects of his new life – Paris, his tutors, his new acquaintance and friends. He complains that the Latin teacher is too harsh and old-fashioned, but he doesn’t mind his dance teacher. His relatives are kind but not at all warm and he longs for home. His circle of friends grows every day and Anatole takes care to fill his letters with various anecdotes of their antics and misbehaviors. He writes of the girls he meets in an attempt to seem adult but ends up sounding pretentious to the point that Fyodor reads these parts of Anatole’s letters out-loud to some of his friends as entertainment. It is not a nice thing to do but he can’t help but amuse himself at the boy’s expense. Secretly, he finds the frankness adorable.

 

The first letter from Fyodor comes almost a month after Anatole first writes. Anatole opens it with such delight that he manages to surprise even himself. Fyodor writes smoothly, in a familiar bold and firm hand that makes Anatole feel safe just looking at it. There are no moralistic lectures like from his parents, none of Helene’s flowery, society-wrought banalities, none of his age-mates’ immaturities or his brother’s unfathomable coldness. Fyodor writes little of himself except for the very basic or very entertaining. His letters are always regretfully short and far between, but Anatole awaits each one with baited breath, hanging on every word.  

 

Paris life soon sweeps him away from thoughts of home and Anatole begins to write less frequently, sometimes only a single letter in three days. Fyodor’s letters come once a month without variance, regardless of how many Anatole writes so the younger boy feels free to indulge in the new world around him. His French improves magnificently and it reflects in his writing as Russian words and phrases begin to quickly give way to their French counterparts.

 

Anatole is far from unhappy, but something nags and lingers at the fringes of his mind, pulling at his attention in the middle of the day when he’s attempting to study or in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. Something is missing and he can’t quite understand what it is. The only thing he _has_ noticed is that when a new letter from Fyodor comes, that feeling is momentarily gone.

 

*~*

 

Fyodor is surprised at how quickly he manages to master the tricks Kozlov shows him. After a smattering of initial loses, he begins to improve quickly, his movements becoming more sure and his ability to control every emotion and every expression more extensive. He pays off his debts to Kozlov and those from the initial losses quickly.

 

“Just be careful with such a thing. You don’t want legal troubles,” Kozlov says, taking the money Fyodor would present to him after every one of his first fifteen wins.

 

“I’m not stupid. I’ll be careful,” Fyodor always replies, slightly offended that he was thought so careless. He has always had the habit of thinking everything through, of being careful and reasonable.

 

When the two say farewell half a year after Fyodor starts his “education” under Kozlov, Fyodor feels a fresh wave of freedom and excitement rush through him. Kozlov is leaving for the Caucuses – God only knows what he’s forgotten there; his excuse is family but Fyodor doesn’t believe him – and it is unlikely that they will see each other anytime in the near future. “Excited to be on your own now?” Kozlov asks, climbing into the carriage that will take him to the next post station.

 

“Excited to not have you looking over my shoulder every moment? Who wouldn’t be?” Fyodor teases. “I have a night planned tonight at the Gentlemen’s Club. I’m planning to win big.” Kozlov nods approvingly. 

 

“You should write!” Kozlov calls as the coach gives a start and begins to roll over the gravel, wheels making a crunching sound on the sand.

 

Fyodor nods in response but knows he won’t. Neither of them will. That is for the better.  

 

*

 

The smell of whisky is strong and intoxicating. The night is in full swing and most of the men are quite drunk. Dinner has passed and the cards and political discussions have begun. The cigar smoke is not yet pervasive but already heavy in the air, mixing with the traces of alcohol to render a purely male atmosphere.

 

Fyodor breathes in deep, savoring the familiar feeling of adrenaline rushing through his body and washing out all doubts to make room for an icy calm which he will need for the night ahead. He twirls a pack of cards in one hand, the familiar rounded corners and smooth edges of the pack comforting in their stability and uniformity. He picks up a drink and joins a small group of acquaintances, careful to chose a circle of those who are younger and richer and therefore, probably, more gullible. Not to mention drunk. He talks little but listens with apparent interest. Someone offers a game of cards and Fyodor shows them his deck, offering to deal.

 

They sit at one of the tables in a circle and Fyodor begins to shuffle, focused, expression impenetrable. He deals one round then another and another after that. His companions say he is lucky and he simply smiles, counting up the profits in his head. He can already see a new bonnet for Galina – yellow, the color is nice on her – and enough money to pay the month’s debts to the bakery. Fyodor picks up the deck again for the last round and begins to deal. “Make your bets, gentlemen,” he says easily, briefly meeting the eyes of Sobolev, who is the youngest of the group and about Fyodor’s age.

 

“Don’t make a single bet more, Dmitri. He’s a scoundrel.” Fyodor looks up, the cards in his hand still in a half-stacked, hald-unfurled position. Andrei Bolkonski stands behind Sobolev, glaring at Fyodor with a haughty, indignant expression. Fyodor had not noticed him join their group; he had been too focused on the game.

 

Fyodor meets his eyes and unfurls the cards. He glances at the hand briefly, then sets it face down on the table before looking back up at Bolkonski. “What are you implying?”

 

The room around them goes quiet. Conversations at other tables and corners are continuing but everyone in their approximate vicinity has felt the tension and turned to watch. Fyodor feels a new rush of anger and dislike but he keeps his expression disinterested.  

 

“You’re a sharper!”

 

“That’s an insult, sir. I advise you to be more careful with your words,” Fyodor snaps back, eyes defiant now.

 

“Don’t pretend to have honor, Dolokhov,” Bolkonski sneers. “Your family has never had a bit of grace to them – as dishonorable as you are penniless.”

 

Fyodor finds himself on his feet before he realizes that he has made the move to stand. His glass tips over and the wine spills across the table, trickling in streams of crimson to the edges and soaking abandoned hands of cards left lying face down. Fyodor opens his mouth to speak but can’t get a word past the flare of anger that is choking him. Finally, he manages to compose himself enough to utter in a single breath, “You might insult me but how dare you attack my family! I-why-I challenge you!”  

 

* 

 

The cool metal of the pistol feels almost comforting under his hands, hard and sure like nothing else in life. Nothing, except that he would not be insulted, that he would never let anyone offend his pride or question the honor of his family. Certainly not a rich, snobbish, daddy’s boy like Bolkonski. 

 

“Fyodor, put the gun down and let’s talk sensibly.” His second – Vasili Onegin – stands leaning against the doorframe and shifting uncomfortably. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

Fyodor doesn’t look up from his examination of the dueling pistol. “Yes, I do.” He is on the brink of seventeen and about to fight his first duel. He should be excited or scared, perhaps frantic even, but he hardly feels a thing. Bolkonski’s words had sunk deep and they keep replaying themselves in his head.

 

Onegin sighs and walks to the window, looking out at the setting sun. “At least let’s make plans to give apologies.”

 

Fyodor looks up sharply. “Are you a fool? Vasili, I’m not forcing you to be my second if you don’t want to, damn it!”

 

Onegin holds both hands up in a surrendering gesture. “That’s not what I said.”

 

Fyodor slams the pistol down onto the table and it makes an ominous metallic sound against the wood. “How can you suggest that I humiliate myself like that? After what he said, about me, about my family! The hell with me, but my mother and sister!”

 

“Yes, about them. Were you thinking about them when you challenged him? Or were you thinking only of yourself and your pride? Bolkonsi is a good shot _and_ he’s older! What if you’re killed? How will they feel, who will be there to support them then?”

 

That had not been something Fyodor had considered. Actually, the possibility of defeat had never crossed his mind. He opens his mouth to reply but finds he does not know what to say. Images fill his mind: his mother crying over his body, Galina in a black mourning dress, the landowner coming to demand payment for the house that they can’t make without the money he should be bringing in… and for some inexplicable reason – Anatole, with tears in his eyes and an even number of forget-me-nots in his arms. Fyodor flinches and blinks several times to clear his head. “I won’t get killed.” Onegin rolls his eyes and means to say something but Fyodor cuts him off. “I don’t have a choice, Vasili, don’t you understand? Though perhaps you don’t – no one is picking on _your_ family for an inability to pay the bills. Forget it, I’ll ask Denisov to be my second.” He scoops up the dueling case and turns to the door.

 

Onegin crosses the room in three brisk strides and grabs Fyodor’s shoulder, tuning him around. “Don’t be like that. I am your friend and your second. I have a duty to advise you to change your mind before any blood is spilled.” He grabs the case firmly and pulls it out of Fyodor’s hold.

 

Dolokhov looks at him steadily for a moment, then gives a bitter laugh and shakes his head. “Well, you can stop now. You’re only wasting your breath.”    

 

*

 

The early morning is bleak; the mist has just begun to lift and hangs at treetop-level instead of directly above the earth. Birds chirp and sing somewhere in the distance but otherwise the Sokolniky woods are quiet and dreamy. Onegin and Bolkonski’s second measure twenty-six paces, stabling swords into the dirt at each barrier. The duelists stand on opposite sides, watching each other wearily.

 

Fyodor is forcing himself to not fidget. He is itching to feel the gun in his hands so that he can start shooting and stop thinking. The formalities seem horribly superfluous to him. He and Bolkonski take their marks once the seconds are finished and wait for the pistols. Fyodor takes his gun gingerly from Onegin and nods at his friend in reassurance. Vasili gives his shoulder a squeeze before stepping aside. Fyodor cocks the pistol and waits for the count.

 

“On my count!” Bolkonski’s second calls. “One, two…begin.”

 

Fyodor takes two steps forward, then stops and breathes in the cool, moist morning air. His vision in unnaturally sharp, the adrenaline running through his veins magnifying every detail of his surroundings, catching his opponent’s every move.

 

Bolkonski begins to lift his gun as he is carrying it at his hip. Fyodor takes another step before starting to drop and level his from its vertical position at his shoulder. He is counting in his head – how many steps are left, how many seconds has it been – trying to predict when Bolkonski will shoot.

 

The shot comes unexpectedly, the report echoing among the trees and scaring a flock of birds perched nearby. The bullet whistles past Fyodor’s ear, ripping his tailcoat and undershirt; the skin of his shoulder stings and Fyodor knows it will be raw for some time. His head spins for a moment as he realizes how close he had just come to death. It is followed by an instant realization that he has a clear chance for a retaliation. “To the barrier,” he says evenly, his voice echoing, attaining an assured, commanding edge. Bolkonski is forced to oblige.

 

Fyodor watches his opponent carefully from his barrier. His eyes narrow as he concentrates, the pistol leveled at Bolkonski’s forehead. His cool determination gives way to a sudden giddy realization, This is his perfect chance to humiliate Bolkonski _and_ avoid any legal repercussions for himself. Fyodor shifts, readjusting his hold on the pistol. He watches Bolkonski carefully, the gun aimed but not making any move to fire. His hand is sure and his eyes are sharp.

 

He stands there waiting until, finally, he can see Bolkonski’s cool, impenetrable façade of indifference begin to crumble. He is scared too, like anyone, of death. His father and his money cannot help him now. Neither can his pretenses of pride and honor and family glory. Fyodor watches with sadistic pleasure as Bolkonski pales visibly and his eyes begin to lose focus. “Shoot! What are you waiting for!” Bolkonski demands, the frayed edges of his tone giving away the fear and nervousness he is working hard at concealing.

 

Fyodor smirks triumphantly. _You’re not even worth my shot_ , he thinks viciously. Then in a single, smooth gesture he flips the pistol vertically…and fires in the air.     

 

*~*

 

_…J'ai hâte de tous vous revoir, mais mon arrivée sera probablement retardé d'une semaine, peut-être un peu plus longtemps. Je songe à faire escale à Moscou où je rendrai visite à deux de mes anciens amis. Dis à papa de ne pas s'inquiéter. Il ne m'arrivera rien de grave. J'ai vraiment hâte de vous revoir!  
Bisous,  
Anatole 1_

 

Anatole sets down the quill and caps the ink bottle which threatens to spill over every time the carriage jerks or bounces on the uneven road. Roads are better in Europe, he has surmised. He looks over the letter to Helene, written out painstakingly in French, and fixes the odd spelling or grammatical mistake here and there before folding up the letter and placing it into an envelope. He seals and addresses it. At sixteen, his French is almost flawless – a fact that Anatole is very proud of. His letters home and to Fyodor had been almost entirely in French as of late and his father has even expressed approval.

 

Anatole looks out over the country landscape as the carriage races toward Moscow, the mid-summer sun sinking slowly behind the horizon. His first visit home in the last four years and he still remembers the road as though he had been driving there just yesterday. His thoughts drift and a small, pleased smile curves his full lips. He is daydreaming again… about seeing Fyodor. That is the reason for his detour to Moscoe before heading to Petersburg to stay with his family for the rest of the summer. Anatole knows he has changed a lot since Fyodor last saw him. He is older – no longer a child – more confident and socially comfortable. He is dressed by the latest fashion, dances divinely, speaks perfect French, rides and fences with style and he has half of Paris’ ladies in love with him.

 

Anatole also wonders if any of this will make a difference to Fyodor.

 

Anatole fantasizes about how they will meet, what they will say and if Fyodor has changed at all. Anatole figures he has. Fyodor is an officer now in the Semenovsky Regiment and makes good profits at cards. He has also fought several duels and always won. Anatole feels his heart swell in that familiar feeling of tenderness that he has always felt when thinking of his older friend and winces inwardly at the understanding of what exactly that warm, ridiculously inappropriate feeling means. He hopes against hope that something will come of it. He is an optimist really, so he doesn’t bother to waist much energy on worrying.

 

*

 

By the time Anatole reaches Moscow it is dark and the streets have been taken over by young hussars on their illicit nightly adventures, gypsy girls and other night-life explorers. Anatole walks through the familiar streets, headed toward Fyodor’s house, humming a romance tune, popular to frustration back in Paris. He has opted to walk to give himself a little more time to think. He is running through various options of what to say when he catches Fyodor by surprise with his unannounced arrival, when familiar voices, shouting drunkenly from down the street near a pub, catch his attention.

 

Anatole steps back into the shadows to watch the carousal. Two officers and three young men in civilian dress tumble out of the pub, laughing and joking among themselves. Two of them, Anatole does not recognize. One is Onegin, Fyodor’s friend, and the other Anatole remembers vaguely as well, but not by name. His breath catches when he spots Fyodor among them. He takes a tentative step forward, pulling himself together to not run and shout in excitement like a child, but stops and retreats back into the dark when he sees the way Fyodor is holding on to the other young officer.

 

“To the actresses!” two of the men in civilian dress are shouting.

 

“Are you certain you’re not joining us?” Onegin asks, looking skeptically at Fyodor.

 

Fyodor’s smile is almost predatory and he glances between his friend and the officer he is holding onto. “No. Denisov and I have some business to take care of. Don’t we Vasia?”

 

Denisov nods; he looks rather drunk.

 

“Ah, the hell with you then!” Onegin shouts, not one bit put out. He and the other two men scramble into a cabbie and take off in the direction of the theater. Fyodor watches them go before taking a step closer to Denisov. He says something against the other young man’s ear and Anatole strains to hear the words but they are too quiet and he is too far away. He doesn’t need to know what they are saying, however. To him it is obvious. Anatole is intuitive to everything that has to do with Fyodor as people often are when it comes to someone they love. He sees it in the looks they share, in the body language, in the way Fyodor’s hand rests on Denisov’s hip as they climb into a coach waiting across the street.

 

Anatole can feel something inside of him die. The gypsy music blaring from inside the pub pounds in his head, blending with the beat of carriage wheels on the pebbled street. Something in his chest constricts, snaps and dies. Perhaps those are his childish hopes and daydreams. He is no longer twelve and he should have known better than to carry them around for four years. _They’re lovers, they’re lovers, they’re lovers!_ The thought repeats itself incessantly and cruelly in his mind as he sprints back down the boulevard to find his coachman. “We’re leaving, we’re leaving now!” he orders in a childishly whinny voice, feeling himself to be a complete fool to have believed in something that was so unfounded.

 

“Now, sir?” The coachman looks baffled. Anatole had told him an entire week, after all.

 

“Yes, now! To Petersburg without delay! I can’t stay here another minute!”

 

*~*

 

Anatole spends the summer in a morose and irritable mood that is so not like him that his family worries and even means to consult a doctor. He tells them it is all useless and in fact it is. He is well enough and finds enjoyment in his usual activities but something has been lost in that fateful drop-in to Moscow, some element of his childhood, of his innocent naïveté that he can never get back.

 

He returns to Paris subdued and lost, no longer sure of what he wants. He has never had his heart broken before and doesn’t realize that that is exactly what the feeling that tears him apart is. He looks for pleasure with street girls and with ladies, but they never satisfy completely and his studies begin to lack to the great annoyance of his tutors. Anatole has never been very diligent but he manages to exceed all of his previous records as he struggles and mourns his childhood love. He has not stopped writing to Fyodor, though he writes rarely and more out of habit than anything. Fyodor’s letters still come precisely once a month. 

 

By the time the Christmas Ball rolls around, Anatole has made a promise to himself that he will not let his bitter mood ruin the holidays. He is dressed in his finest tailcoat and pantaloons, his hair styled and combed back as dictated by the latest fashion. He is young and good looking, the champagne and wine flows in sparkling fountains under the candlelight and the lovely young Parisian girls dance effortlessly to the waltzes and quadrilles. Anatole finds himself longing for a Mazurka.

 

“Anatole! Come over here. One of your compatriots is in town.” Anatole looks up to see LeBeau, a young, brash cadet, waiving to him enthusiastically and gesturing to a young man of obvious Russian apparel who is standing beside him, looking flustered and embarrassed at being the center of attention.

 

Anatole strides over to them and grins at LeBeau cheerfully. “Well, make your introductions.”

 

“Pierre, this is Anatole Kuragin; he’s a friend of mine. Anatole, this is Pierre Bezukhov. He has come to study at the university. You’re from Moscow, yes?”

 

Pierre nods, slowly. “Yes, ah, yes, my-my father is a Muscovite and I was, ah, I was born there. He—my father—was so kind as to pay for my education here.”

 

“Did you arrive long ago?” Anatole asks, studying Pierre’s face carefully. He is dressed neatly but rather plainly. He is full in figure but has lovely, kind, soft eyes and an endearing manner to blush whenever addressed directly even if he manages to press on with his answers.

 

“No, not long. Just the beginning of the week.” Pierre looks up at Anatole and gives him a shy sort of smile. “Would you care to show me around some day?”

 

“Of course! What do you say to dinner tomorrow afternoon? We can start there.” Anatole suddenly finds himself in a much better mood than he had been all autumn. LeBeau is grinning like he knows something. He gives Anatole’s shoulder a squeeze before chasing some pretty blonde girl across the chamber to beg for the next dance.

 

*~*

 

Pierre’s books are scattered all over the floor and Anatole almost trips over one of them. He makes a face at the evidence of intense intellectual processes. “Goodness, what have you been studying?” he calls to Pierre who is lost somewhere between the volumes and papers.

 

“Philosophy.” Pierre says, putting aside one of the fat books and making his way to Anatole. “It’s all about what a person needs to survive. The body, as we know, needs food and water… Perhaps shelter. But the soul, the survival of the soul requires something more… extraordinary.”

 

Anatole smirks, holding up a bottle of fine red wine. “And I have just what it needs right here.”

 

Pierre nods approvingly and hurries to stack his books and shove them aside, ringing for glasses and cheese as he goes. “I didn’t expect you to call,” he says hurriedly, obviously preoccupied with making the sitting room look more presentable. “I thought to spend the day studying.”

 

“How horribly boring,” Anatole puts in, flopping on the couch and looking at the evening light streaming into the window through the bottle. “You should know by now that I have a habit of dropping in unexpectedly. It’s only been – what? – two months?”

 

Pierre laughs and nods good naturedly. “Yes, yes.” Their friendship had managed to sprout and evolve at dizzying speeds. They found a compatibility in their natures that was extremely satisfying and they had become nearly inseparable.

 

The wine goes easily and so do their tongues. Anatole soon finds himself lying on the lush carpet by the fireplace with his head in Pierre’s lap as the other boy plays carelessly with his soft, strawberry-blond hair. “Say, Anatole,” Pierre starts thoughtfully. “You say you’ve never been serious about a girl. Why’s that?”

 

Anatole shrugs uncertainly. “I don’t know. I suppose…I suppose I’m not the marrying type.” He closes his eyes and wonders at those words, chewing lightly at his lower lip. “Or maybe it’s just not the time, I don’t know. What of yourself?”

 

Pierre sighs and gives a slight tug at one of the fair strands of hair he’s been twirling around his finger. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to marry one day. Now, I’ve got an older friend back in Russia. He just got married and I don’t see how that is so wonderful, though for him perhaps it is.”

 

Anatole opens his eyes slowly, the alcohol in his blood making the edges of things seems softer, slightly blurry. “Oh?” he asks, interested. “You have a close friend who just got married? Are you jealous?”

 

Pierre seems to stiffen at those words at first but then deflates. “Yes,” he admits weakly.

 

Anatole sits up, meeting the other boy’s eyes, his own half closed, veiled by long, dark lashes. “I’ve got an older friend too and he…well he’s not married but I think he broke my heart.”

 

Pierre reaches out and touches his cheek gently. “Why would anyone do that?”

 

Anatole laughs lightly and leans back so that he is pressed flush against Pierre’s chest. “I don’t know. I think he still holds me for a child. I can’t blame him. I haven’t seen him in years.” He looks back at Pierre, meeting his velvet, dark brown eyes with his own crystal grey ones. “I don’t think it matters now though…”

 

*~*

 

“Do write. Do write a lot,” Pierre practically begs, holding on to Anatole’s wrist tightly.

 

“Of course I will,” Anatole promises, pulling Pierre toward him. Lips find lips and the world turns and flips around for a few moments while they kiss their goodbye, hands roaming over thick fabric, tracing each others bodies in an attempt to memorize their shape and form.

 

“Must you go?” Pierre gasps when they finally withdraw.

 

Anatole nods silently. He rubs his nose against Pierre’s and giggles childishly. “Maybe you can come for the summers to visit, or I can come down.” His smile grows by the minute. “We’ll go to our Island and sunbathe all day. In the meantime, drink lots of fine French wine for me, _mon cheri_.”

 

“Alright,” Pierre agrees, smiling dreamily. He lets go of Anatole’s hand and walks with him out to the front gate where the carriage with all of Anatole’s things is waiting. “ _Adieu_!” Pierre calls weakly as the carriage begins to roll and pick up speed. Anatole waves and watches Pierre from the window for a few minutes before sitting back and closing his eyes. He had managed to stay composed for Pierre’s sake but all he really wants to do is cry. The past few months had been the most blissful of his life. Pierre has become his first _adult_ love. His first _requited_ love.

 

*~*  

 

Fyodor re-reads the invitation to the Kuragins’ soirée with an expression of half-uncertainty, half-displeasure. He is starting to regret telling Helene when he would be in Petersburg. Her loopy, fancy handwriting strokes through every Latin letter – the note is in French of course – with such dainty grace that Fyodor can almost picture the way the quill had moved in her small hand. Below her signature is one more line written out in a hand that is similar but bolder and more rushed. This hand he could recognize anywhere. Not surprising after all those letters Anatole had written him.    

 

_I hope you come. Or have you not missed me?_

 

Besides, only Anatole could be so flippantly, adorably pretentious. Fyodor folds up the note and sticks it in his pocket, looking up at the cabbie driver who seems to be watching him with some interest. “To the Kuragins.” He says simply, sitting back and closing his eyes when the carriage begins to move.

 

Fyodor is not certain why he feels so uncomfortable about seeing Anatole. It had not been very difficult to write to him and Fyodor had always had the leading role in their friendship. Of course this was before, when Anatole was still a child. Now, a young Prince, he outranks Fyodor in title, money, education –everything. Fyodor is perfectly uncertain of how to address himself to this new Anatole – someone he knew as a boy but who is now his social superior without the determinant age gap to give him leverage.   

 

*

 

Fyodor steps into the Kuragin drawing room with a sense of foreboding. A small band set is entertaining and waiters are floating among the guests with treys of drink of appetizers. He instantly notices Helene’s figure gliding among the guests. She is gorgeous as always, with her hair up in a fountain, curls tumbling freely and curling around the base of her neck. She is wearing a flowing, light-blue gown and white gloves. Fyodor knows the gown will give her large grey eyes a soft blue tint. He approaches her first and kisses her hand. “Evening, Princess.”

 

She laughs lightly, tilting her head back to look up at him. “Fyodor, stop. Formalities do not suit you.” Her smile is bright and brilliant, just as Fyodor remembers Anatole’s. Although, Helene does have a predatory edge to her expression when she smiles which Anatole never did. Fyodor wonders offhandedly if that is an age thing.

 

“Your brother?” he ventures cautiously.

 

“Which one?” She knows but wants to play with him.

 

“Anatole, of course,” Fyodor shoors back, slightly irritated.

 

“He arrived a few days ago,” she supplies conversationally, lifting a champagne flute off the trey of a passing waiter and handing it to him. She looks at him knowingly. “I suppose it is too much to assume that you came here to see me?”

 

Fyodor rolls his eyes at her. “Helene,” he says heavily, giving her a meaningful look to say he is not in the mood for her flirtatious games. He almost wishes she wouldn’t tease him so; he knows she will never marry him.

 

“Well, alright, alright. He’s somewhere over there,” Helene obliges, waving her hand in the general direction of a cluster of young men. Fyodor looks over his shoulder and spots Anatole instantly. His silky, strawberry-blonde hair and the overly fashionable and fanciful embroidery of his tailcoat give him away easily. Fyodor turns back to thank Helene but she has already slipped away into the crowd of guests.

 

Fyodor takes several long drinks of the champagne, cursing himself for his strange, sudden awkwardness and insecurity over God knows what. He begins to slowly make his way toward Anatole’s group, deciding on how he should approach Anatole –- formally? as an old friend? –  and finding himself slightly bothered by Helene’s behavior and how she had quickly and tactfully removed herself after indicating Anatole to him.He doesn’t get the chance to decide because in the moment before he can, Anatole turns and makes his decision for him.

 

The only word Fyodor can find to describe the boy is – beautiful. Anatole is tall and slim, with soft, graceful features that are neither too angular nor too cherubic and undefined. His eyes are the same wide, crystal grey that Fyodor remembers and his smile lights up the room. When he tosses his head just slightly, his silky hair ripples and catches light, making Fyodor ache to run his hands through it. Every movement Anatole makes is elegant and graceful, confident and aristocratic. His tailcoat is of a pure white velvet, embroidered with blue and red silk, perfectly fitted and tailored. His boots are polished new and of the latest style. He isn’t wearing gloves and Fyodor finds himself dreading a handshake…because he isn’t wearing gloves either.

 

Anatole notices him and stops mid-laugh, his expression freezing and changing, going through a thousand emotions in a single second. The ending result is a radiant warm smile that Fyodor both hates and appreciates. “Fyodor! _Mon cher ami_! How many years, damn it!” Anatole pushes his glass into the hands of one of his companions and walks briskly to Fyodor, shouldering past the people in his way.

 

Fyodor puts on a smile, the corners of his mouth quirking just slightly to give his expression a more noncommittal tone. “Your Grace,” he says smoothly, offering Anatole a slight bow. He refuses to be knocked off balance by this beautiful, young, rich boy who just slightly resembles the darling child he had once mentored.

 

Anatole stops in front of him, smile fading slightly. The voices around them blur and blend together as their eyes meet, the music a lolling noise somewhere far away. “Your Grace? Next you’ll be calling me Prince Kuragin! What’s with you?” Anatole watches Fyodor in askance, becoming more miffed and upset every moment that Fyodor stays quiet.

 

“Hello, Anatole,” Fyodor tries again, smirking slightly at the obvious discomfort that his cool greeting had caused. He wants Anatole to feel uncomfortable, to squirm and wonder because he feels uncertain himself and the less confident Anatole is the less uncomfortable he feels. His voice is quiet and comes out a little softer than he meant it to.

 

“Hello,” Anatole repeats just as quietly. He looks put out and almost shy, suddenly. “Why do you look at me as though you do not know me?”

 

Fyodor brings the glass of champagne he is holding to his lips and regards Anatole over the rim for a moment before tipping the glass and allowing the bubbling liquid to sting his lips before he swallows down another two drinks/ “You’re much taller than you were when I last saw you,” he finally says, finding his nerve once again, partially comforted by the warmth of the alcohol.

 

Anatole looks confused for a moment, then breaks out into a stunning, joyful smile. He had been waiting all day for this party, both hoping for and against Fyodor’s appearance. He had spent hours dressing and preparing, pacing around the room like a caged tomcat, nervous and miserable. Writing to Pierre had calmed him but only marginally; no sooner had he put down the quill that he was pacing once again. Coming face to face with Fyodor when he had already come to accept that the older man was not going to show up had been everything from exhilarating to painful. Every feeling he had ever felt toward his friend came crashing down on him within the span of a minute and his head had spun. Seeing that Fyodor is only being his usual, sarcastic self brings Anatole out of his nervousness and he can barely keep himself from jumping with delight. “Of course I am. I’m not _twelve_ anymore, after all. What the hell were you expecting?” Anatole reaches out and pulls him into a tight embrace. He buries his face into Fyodor’s shoulder and breathes in that scent that is _still_ familiar even after so many years apart.

 

Fyodor hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around Anatole and allowing himself to relax. “I don’t think I was expecting anything specific,” he replies with a slight laugh. The boy is slim and almost fragile, fitting perfectly into his arms and Fyodor feels a familiar wave of tender protectiveness wash over him. He pushes Anatole away, embarrassed at himself and acutely aware of the people around them and how different Anatole’s social circle is from his own and that of his family, how much richer and higher in the court hierarchy. He feels his social inferiority to Anatole and it embarrasses him as much as it angers him. But Anatole’s eyes are beautiful and gentle, and the hand he keeps on Fyodor’s arm even after they move away from each other is warm and reassuring. It is a painful paradox that he has no idea how to deal with.

 

“Come, I want you to meet some people. I was just telling them about the last ball in Paris that I attended. I never got a chance to write to you about it,” Anatole chirps excitedly, pulling Fyodor toward his cluster of friends. He is as oblivious to his friend’s discomfort and ambivalence as he is to most things.

 

Fyodor follows him, dazed and infuriated with the heat that rises up in his body every time Anatole smiles. _If I am not careful_ , he thinks bitterly as Anatole begins to make introductions, _I could easily fall in love with him._ Having promised himself firmly that such a thing would never happen, Fyodor spends the next year convinced that he only maintains his friendship with Anatole because he needs the young Prince’s social standing to meet young, rich boys whom he can lure into his card games. Forget the fact that every time he is away in Moscow, the only thing he misses about Petersburg is Anatole. 

 

*~*

 

Sun beats through the treetops, lighting up the leaves so they glow a lime green and saturating the earth and the garden’s flowerbeds with light. The day is bright and warm, the cool breeze that sweeps through the grass refreshing in the light of the sun. Fyodor walks quietly beside Anatole, listening to the younger boy talk rapturously about all sorts of trivial matters. He enjoys watching the sway in Anatole’s hips and the way the light catches in his hair.

 

“Pierre wrote the other day,” Anatole says after a paused, picking a bright poppy and twirling it between his fingers. The bright orange flower catches the light and glows to match Anatole’s radiant expression. Fyodor watches with a bemused smile, wondering at how beautiful some things can be, even among the general bleakness of the world.

 

“The two of you are close?” he asks, managing to keep the jealous edge out of his tone.

 

“Yes,” Anatole says without thinking about it. “He was my best friend in Paris.” He looks up at Fyodor and watches his face carefully, as though waiting for a reaction. “Why?”

 

“Just thought I’d ask. You talk about him a lot.” He plucks the flower out of Anatole’s hand and examines it against the light before tossing it aside. The poppy lands on the path behind them, lying alone and hapless on the dirt, a bright, orange spot against the brown.

 

Anatole frowns, looking from the flower up to his friend. “What are you getting at?”

 

“Is that why you stopped writing – Pierre?” Fyodor begins to walk again, his stride firm and paced in the military fashion.

 

Anatole sweeps soft strands of hair from his eyes and shakes his head. “No… and I never stopped writing. I simply wrote less.”

 

“A lot less.” Fyodor turns briefly to smirk at him. He is tired of running around like this, innuendo after innuendo, always guessing and never knowing if it was only his perverted imagination or if there is something behind the way he catches Anatole looking at him sometimes.

 

Anatole flushes bright pink and ducks him head. “Perhaps I just grew up,” he says quietly, not meeting Fyodor’s eyes. He can still remember how much it had hurt to see Fyodor with Denisov that one summer night. “You know,” he says slowly, stopping in the shade of a thick grove of trees, “I was in Moscow about a year before I was to return from France.”

 

Fyodor looks up sharply, eyes suddenly vigilant. The news surprises him. “Why didn’t you say anything in your letters? Or come to see me?”

 

“I was going to.” Anatole plucks a leaf off of the nearest tree and fidgets with it. ‘I wanted to surprise you so I didn’t write. Then I came and I saw you…with Denisov…” His voice drops and he looks up at Fyodor with pleading eyes that ask for permission to continue.

 

“Denisov? So what?” Fyodor tries to remember what could he have possibly had with Denisov about two years ago. The memories come back in strange, drunken snapshots of parties, drinks, sex… It had been a wild, whirlwind romance that had ended as quickly and abruptly as it had started. It had all been for entertainment, from nothing to do.

 

“The way you were looking at each other…I just knew…I just knew that you wouldn’t want to see me at that moment.” Anatole reaches out and takes Fyodor’s hand in his with a forward gentleness that speaks for itself, shouts out everything that has been boiling and building up inside of him. Feelings that he had meant to leave behind that night when he had first kissed Pierre and sworn to forget. Feelings that had returned the moment he saw Fyodor standing in the middle of his father’s drawing room. Anatole blushes a deeper red and lets go of Fyodor, taking a step back. “Please, don’t say anything…”

 

Fyodor watches the boy for another moment, his eyes lingering first on his shoulders, then moving up to his lips. He pushes Anatole deep into the grove where they would be blocked from view and kisses him for the first time. There is nothing tender in that kiss – it is bruising and desperate, full of longing and pent up desire.

 

When they withdraw, Anatole gasps for breath. He is smiling. Fyodor smirks, before pinning Anatole against one of the trees and kissing him again, his hands holding the boy’s shoulders against the trunk. Anatole moans into the kiss, one hand going to wrap around Fyodor’s waist, the other twining in his soft, brown hair. The expensive, soft silk on the cuffs of Anatole’s frockcoat brushes against Fyodor’s cheek and he feels shivers running through him at that touch.

 

When Fyodor withdraws for air and opens his eyes, his vision is full of Anatole’s face, beautiful and elegant, bathed in rich, gold sunlight – innocently radiant. “Now will you forget Pierre?” he asks in heavily accented French, his tone something between a growl and a purr.

 

Anatole nods mutely and leans forward to recapture Fyodor’s hot mouth with his.

 

*~*

 

Snow falls in large, moist snowflakes, carpeting the ground in a blanket of white. The bare tree branches spear the grey sky and hang low, weighed down by snow drifts that create sparkling, white foliage on the branches of trees and bushes.

 

Anatole uses one hand to fix his hat and the other to scoop up a handful of wet snow. He rolls it up into a ball and throws the snowball as hard as he can at Fyodor who ducks and retaliates with his own. Anatole steps to the side, only to take the second snowball Fyodor throws to the face. He laughs and scoops up more snow, ducking behind a tree trunk to avoid getting hit again.

 

They had been driving through this part of the woods on their way back into town when Anatole had gotten the urge to make a snow angel on one of the large drifts. He stopped the sled and flopped into the deep snow. Fyodor had proceeded to scoop up snow and pummel him with snowballs. When Anatole had retaliated, an entire snowball fight ensued.

 

Fyodor watches Anatole carefully as the boy hides behind the tree, then rushes at him, taking two snowballs in the chest but not stopping. Anatole squeals and darks out from behind it, running back toward the sled. His feet sink deep into the snow and he stumbles and falls face first into the snow. Fyodor lands on top of him a few moments later and tolls the boy over.

 

They tumble down a small hill, rolling over each other and laughing. Fyodor lands on top of Anatole and pulls the boy’s hat over his eyes. Anatole laughs and flais hopelessly at him. “Fedia, Fedia, stop! Alright, alright, you win!” he laughs, finally managing to push Fyodor off him. They lie side by side in the snow, looking up at the murky sky until Anatole turns his head and finds Fyodor’s lips with his in a gentle, loving kiss.

 

Fyodor pulls back and runs his hand over Anatole’s cheeks, wiping away the wet snowflakes that have covered his face. He smiles softly, breathing in Anatole’s scent, the expensive cologne, before kissing him again to taste the remains of equally expensive wine and champagne. He loves this closeness to Anatole, the richness of the boy’s world. He loves the feel of possessing something as delicate and precious as the young Prince. Anatole is a beautiful part of a beautiful world of wealth and power and carefree indulgences and if Fyodor possesses him, he is one step closer to a dream because something of that world is _his_.  

 

“Every time you come to Petersburg,” Anatole remarks between kisses, “you’re always staying around makeshift. Don’t you get tired of it?”

 

Fyodor shrugs uncertainly at him, which comes out awkward in their lying down position. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

 

Anatole looks into his eyes and seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. “Why don’t you come live with me. As in permanently.”

 

Fyodor raises his eyebrows at the boy. “I could do that.” He is not at all surprised at the offer, for he had been waiting for Anatole to make it for a few weeks now at least.

 

Anatole beams and sits up, brushing snow off his coat. “Wonderful. Well, let’s go. It is getting cold lying in the snow.” He pulls Fyodor up and practically skips to the sled, eyes bright with anticipation of this new stage in their relationship.

 

*~*

 

Anatole struggles to not look guilty when he meets Pierre at the post station. It has been three years since they said farewell in Paris and Anatole has not gone to visit once. He isn’t sure if he and Pierre even have a relationship anymore. Pierre’s letters had been filled with tenderness, even if his phrasing was awkward and shy at times and Anatole felt guilty every time he read one. He would glance surreptitiously up at Fyodor across the breakfast table and fold up the letter. If Fyodor asked who it was from, Anatole would reply, “no one” or “my sister.”

 

“I don’t know if you have a place to stay,” Anatole says, speaking rapidly in an attempt to make conversation. “I would put you up but…” He is not sure how to make the fact that he is living with Fyodor not sound suspicious to Pierre.

 

“It’s not a problem. I have a place where I can stay,” Pierre tells him as they get into the carriage. Anatole gives a quiet sigh of relief behind his back.

 

“You should introduce me to your lot here,” Pierre says as the carriage starts. “Did you have plans for tonight? I could drop off my things and you can take me wherever. I wouldn’t mind a good party at the moment.”

 

Anatole isn’t sure if it is a good idea to introduce Pierre to Fyodor but he knows it is inevitable, so he nods and smiles easily. “Sure. I know a place we can go.”

 

*

 

“Pierre, this is Fyodor Dolokhov, a childhood friend of mine. Fyodor, Pierre Bezukhov, the one I have told you about.” Anatole looks uncertainly between the two men, his smile fixed and slightly unnatural.

 

“It is, ah, nice to meet you,” Pierre says. He looks earnest and Anatole winces inwardly.

 

Fyodor measures Pierre up with a calculating look. He doesn’t like the boy instantly. Pierre is uncouth and unconvincing. He seems unsure of his words and his reasons; he stutters and stumbles as though always looking for something else to say than what he is saying or rushing to pour out everything he is thinking. By the cut of his tailcoat it is easy to see that he is not rich and everyone knows he is illegitimate. Fyodor feels no respect for Pierre and this makes him resent Anatole’s attachment to him even more. “Pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you,” he says finally, his eyes predatorily sharp, expression unreadable, and a razor sharp, almost mocking quality to his voice.

 

Pierre suddenly feels uncomfortable and his smile wavers, becomes nearly shy. He looks between Anatole and Fyodor uncertainly. He means well but being socially inapt he cannot quite understand the undercurrents he feels radiating from Dolokhov’s tone. Dolokhov is intimidating – handsome, with intense, intelligent eyes and a cool, sharp demeanor. He makes Pierre feel inferior with just a glance and the boy shuffles closer to Anatole on instinct.

 

“Wine?” Anatole asks abruptly, hoping that bringing alcohol into the picture would distract the two men from their staring match.

 

Fyodor breaks eye contact with Pierre to glance at Anatole, then at the rest of the company who are crowded around a card table. “No. I have a game of cards to play and I want to be sober while I do it,” he says distractedly and walks off. Anatole watches him with a sinking feeling. They won’t be making love tonight.   

 

*~*

 

“Stop associating with Kuragin and his lot.”

 

Pierre looks up from the book that he has been pretending to read and meets Andrei’s steady, heavy gaze. He shuts the book and sets it down gingerly in his lap, regarding his old friend with a thoughtful, somewhat pitiful expression. “Why should I not want to get drunk with the only people who care about me? Everyone else sees a joke in me. At least Anatole takes me seriously.”

 

Andrei scoffs, pacing across the room to the window, then back to the bookshelf. “Does he, Pierre? The way he carries on with Dolokhov in front of you? Is that how seriously he takes you?”

 

Pierre looks down, uncertain whether to be offended or not. He knows Anatole and Fyodor are involved but after three years apart he could have hardly expected someone as glamorous as Anatole to stay completely faithful. Over the past few months, Pierre has also discovered that he really is no competition for Dolokhov. Fyodor is smarter, better looking, and much more daring and confident than Pierre could ever dream of being. Pierre can hardly blame Anatole for falling in love with such a man. And if Pierre is to be perfectly honest, Anatole isn’t his first choice either.

 

“Drop him. All of them,” Andrei insists.

 

Pierre stares blankly at the candle burning on the writing table, his hands playing absentmindedly with the corners of the pages of the book in his lap. The dancing candle flame throws shadows across the room. Shadows that flicker and move and shift… “You’re not being fair, Andrei,” he says softly, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “You married, refused to acknowledge me…and now when I finally find someone you tell me to leave him. It’s selfish.”

 

Andrei looks back and walks to him, eyes narrowed slightly. “I would tell you to leave anyone whom I did not think worthy of you, Pierre. Besides, these perversions are not honorable and I strongly suggest that you do not indulge in them. Think what sort of life you are leading.”

 

“Do you suggest I get married?”

 

Andrei makes a frustrated gesture. “No, of course not. You have so much potential; do not tie yourself down until you have reached and achieved all you can. But leading this life, allowing these depravities to control you will hinder you as much, if not more, than any marriage.”

 

Pierre looks down, feeling guilty and upset. He has always admired Andrei’s opinion a great deal. “They all seem happy…”

 

“Pierre, name me a single honorable man who indulges in all this depravity – the drinking, the hooliganisms, the actresses, the sodomy? Anatole and Dolokhov – their only goal in life is self indulgence. I fought Dolokhov in a duel, you know.”

 

Pierre looks up, breaking his stupefied staring match with the dancing candle. “Oh? When?”

 

“Several years ago. Before you went to Paris but I never told you. I barely knew you then and you were just a child. He was sharping and I called him out on it. He challenged me, then acted dishonorably, aiming to humiliate me. That’s all they want – these sort of men. To indulge themselves.”

 

Pierre ponders this for a moment, his mind going back to Anatole and his sweet smile and beautiful eyes, his acceptance and loving touches. He thinks of Dolokhov and his cold but intelligent and mesmerizing manner. He thinks of how careless Anatole is in showing his affection for his new lover in front of him and how much it hurts to know that he has been demoted to “friend” from something more because he is not quite as daring and dashing and captivating. Pierre has always believed that Andrei understands people better than he does and thinks that if Andrei says someone is scum then he is right. “You know he – Anatole – invited me tonight,” Pierre says slowly, looking up into Andrei’s face. “I won’t go.”

 

Andrei smiles approvingly and nods, asking for his word, and Pierre feels he has made the right choice.    

 

*

 

“Tie him tighter!” someone calls from the back of the group, bouncing up and down to see over the shoulders of his fellows. Anatole and Pierre hold the bear cub tightly by the leash and neck while Makarov, Hvostikov and Dolokhov tie the struggling policeman onto the animal’s back. The rest of the drunken group – about four of five young men – stands in a half circle around them, cheering and shouting out pointless suggestions.

 

“That will teach them to ruin our fun!” Fyodor shouts, finally managing to secure the knot and dramatically letting go of the rope. The group cheers and Pierre finds himself cheering as well because he is drunk and because the episode really is funny. He never liked policemen anyways. They all think too much of themselves. He feels slightly guilty for coming to Anatole’s party when he had told Andrei he wouldn’t but Anatole had quickly gotten him too drunk to worry about it. Besides, he thought it would only be fair to give Anatole one more chance, just so he could be certain that he isn’t making a mistake.

 

“Off into the river with him!” Dolokhov commands, waving his arms. To roars of laughter, Anatole lets go of the bear cub and Makarov gives him an enthusiastic push toward the water. The bear, finding itself in the waters of the Neva, begins to swim rapidly along the current, the policeman tied to its back, shouting and cursing, promising to report “the entire lot” of them to the precinct.  

 

Anatole throws his arms around Fyodor’s neck and Dolokhov twirls him around twice. “Brilliant idea!” Anatole shouts. Fyodor leans in and whispers something into his ear. Anatole laughs and throws his head back, his cheeks turning an abashed shade of pink.

 

Pierre, who, unlike the others, is watching them, suddenly feels himself sober. He can’t breath and the blush on Anatole’s cheeks makes him nauseas. Andrei’s words fill his head, repeating over and over. Pierre takes several steps back, looking around at the satisfied faces of his companions and suddenly thinks that he does not belong here. He looks back at Anatole and the possessive way Dolokhov has his arm around the boy’s waist. Pierre’s vision darkens and he backs away from the group, several steps at a time. When he is about five meters away, he turns and breaks into a run, vowing to break with the entire lot. _Andrei is right, he is always right_ , Pierre thinks miserably as he runs through the night, away from the love he had faught to keep to no avail.

 

Anatole notices that Pierre has left a few minutes afterwards. He looks around baffled, searching out the young man with his eyes. “Where did Pierre go?” he asks finally.

 

Fyodor shrugs. “Does it matter? Let us get home. It is getting late and I want to keep my promise.” He smirks, referring to what he had whispered in Anatole’s ear earlier.

 

Anatole’s smile grows into a sloppy grin. He leans back against Fyodor’s chest and tilts his head back slightly. “I like that idea.”

 

*~*

 

“Did they do it?” Anatole comes running down the hall the moment Fyodor walks through the door. He looks shaken up and upset, his hair mussed, mouth drawn tight with concern.

 

Fyodor hangs up his coat and looks back at his lover with a bitter, ironic smile. “Yes.”

 

“They demoted you?”

 

Fyodor rolls his eyes and kicks off his boots. “Well?”

 

Anatole sucks in a breath and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says softly, deflating slightly.

 

“Your father got you off I suppose.” It isn’t a question.

 

“Yes.” Anatole looks sheepish. “I’m supposed to leave Petersburg for some time now. So are Pierre and Hvostikov. Makarov was never identified. Lisov—“

 

“I don’t care,” Fyodor snaps tiredly. He walks past Anatole and into the sitting room, ringing for wine. He pours out a glass for himself and leaves the bottle on the coffee table before sinking into the couch and closing his eyes. “It’s all nonsense. I’m leaving for the army tomorrow. I suppose it is a good thing we are on the brink of war. It will give me a chance to prove myself.”

 

Anatole watches him from the doorway, eyes wide and just a little frightened. “Good? You could get killed. How can you be so calm?” He gestures haplessly and helplessly, one hand running through his hair in a frustrated, habitual gesture.

 

Fyodor opens his eyes and regards Anatole over the edge of the glass. “What can I do? Throwing a hysterical fit like you won’t help anything.” He smirks slightly when Anatole’s expression changes to a pout. “Come here.”

 

Anatole goes, taking several uncertain, careful steps, then rushing forward to settle on his lover/s lap. He wraps both arms around Fyodor’s neck and presses their foreheads together. “I could ask my father,” Anatole starts tentatively, “or Helene…”

 

Fyodor shakes his head instantly, gulping down the remainder of the glass. “I don’t need your money or your favors.” His pride would never let him be so indebted to anyone.

 

Anatole sighs and kisses him gently. “Must you be so stubborn?”

 

“It’s called self respect.”

 

“It’s called suicide!”

 

Fyodor laughs and pulls Anatole flush against him, sliding one hand over the boy’s hip and stopping just at his ass. “Shut up,”” he mutters against Anatole’s lips, before picking the young Prince up into his arms and carrying him off toward the bedroom for one last night. Just in case.

 

*~*

 

“I must ask you a favor.” Helene puts out her hand and draws him into her private chambers, locking the door behind her after dismissing the maid.

 

Fyodor looks around, realizing he had never been anywhere near her private life before. Helene’s rooms are bright and filled with sunlight. There are small trinkets everywhere and the embroideries are done in warm, feminine colors. Soft silks and velvets are pervasive; the air is filled with a light, perfumed fragrance. “Milady, I am at your service,” he says dramatically, giving her an exaggerated  bow.

 

Helene gives him a small smirk. “Stop that, I’m serious.” She goes to the mirror to fix her hair, lacing her long, slender fingers through the elaborate curls of her hairstyle. “By the way, I see you’ve been returned to your rank. It is nice to see you as an officer again; you don’t look half as handsome in a soldier’s garb.”

 

“No one looks good in a soldier’s garb,” Fyodor quips.

 

“Anatole worried me, you know,” she continues, methodically taking out the clips from her hair and letting the curls fall over her shoulders. “He said you were wounded.”

 

“I wrote that it was nothing.” Fyodor rubs one hand absentmindedly over his forehead and temple where the flesh wound had been. It had not been serious but he found Anatole’s concern somewhat touching. “Where is Anatole anyways?”

 

“In the army.”

 

“The army?” Fyodor raises his eyebrows at her in askance. He must admit to a light prick of concern.

 

“No where near the front, don’t worry,” Helene says quickly, glancing over her shoulder at him knowingly. “He left shortly after my wedding.” She returns to undoing her elaborate bun, every movement and expression carefully casual.

 

“Yes, I heard about that. Would you like my congratulations or my condolences?”

 

She laughs lightly, the sound ringing around the room like a handful of silver bells. “You could at least congratulate me on my new fortune?”

 

“I think I’ll pass up the opportunity, thank you.”

 

She just laughs again in amusement. “You should be happy for me.”

 

“Should I?”

 

She purses her lips and watches him in the mirror. “Just because you don’t have a rich relative who could die and leave you a fortune…”

 

Fyodor scoffs. “Pierre is a fool. He doesn’t know what to do with the money in the first place.”

 

“I agree. He is also a fool for hurting my brother.”

 

Fyodor tenses slightly, losing interest in the trinket he had been studying, and looks over at Helene whose expression is suddenly sober and serious. “What did he do to Anatole?”

 

“Oh he said all sorts of terrible things to him. Cut off their relations, called him a pervert and said plenty of nasty things about you. I think it had all been building up in him since the three of you were sent of Petersburg for the bear incident, but it only came out recently. Simply more proof of how indecisive Pierre is. He also said something about you being a scoundrel and dishonorable. Low, I think was the word he used.” Helene’s eyes are calculating as she watches him in the mirror. She knows Fyodor will instantly think of money, even though Pierre had not meant money when he and Anatole had their tiff.

 

Her calculations are correct as Fyodor instantly straightens, anger bubbling to the surface. How dare Pierre – the bastard that he is – suddenly talk of honor and worth and sanctity simply because he was suddenly hit over the head with indecent amounts of gold. He has to admit to jealousy as well. His anger rises as he imagines Anatole attempting to mend his broken relationship with Pierre while he was away serving in the army, in constant and considerable danger, and realizes that Pierre – unlike himself – is now part of Anatole’s elite circle and that Pierre can offer Anatole something that Fyodor can not, both socially and economically. “He’s a dirty fool that’s what he is,” Fyodor growls, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Is this what this is all about? The favor? What would you have me do?”

 

“Anatole was upset at me for marrying him,” Helene continues as though she had not heard the question. “He threw a fit the night before my wedding and left straight afterward. I think he kept hoping for a change of heart on my side. I tried to explain to him that marriage is not about love or personal affairs, at least not for practical people. It is about politics and money. For me it certainly is; I’m not in love with anyone, thank God.” She turns to him, leaning against the small makeup table behind her, both hands clutching the edges. “But you know Anatole – emotional and hardly very bright.”

 

“What do you want from _me_?”

 

“I want you to pretend to be in love me. To pretend to be my lover.”

 

“Who do you take me for!” Fyodor isn’t sure whether to be mad or amused at her audacity.

 

“This is all so you can duel him.”

 

“Can’t I just find a way to challenge him, if you want to be rid of him so much? Why all this drama?”

 

“No, no. It must be done correctly!” Helene’s lips purse in irritation. She paces across the room, running both hands through her hair. “If he and other people think it is an affair and he challenges you, you will be defending your honor _and_ mine. Then after the duel, when we are rid of him and nothing happens between you and I, everyone will understand that he was only paranoid and jealous and both our names will be cleared. It will look so much better for society while achieving the same result.” 

 

“You are a cruel woman. I love the way you think.” He is actually rather impressed.

 

She smiles sweetly at him. “ _Merci beaucoup, mon cher_.”

 

“But tell me,” Fyodor says slowly, leaning back against the wall, “why should I help you? What do I get out of this? You get all of his money and no husband to hold you down. But what is in it for me?”

 

“You don’t do anything just because, do you, Dolokhov?”

 

“I’m not a fool.”

 

She smiles in that same sweet manner at him, her eyes dancing. “This is why I like you,” she comments. “I think you will help me because you want to get rid of Pierre just as much as I do.”

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“You are in love with my brother—“

 

“Hardly.”

 

“—Or at the least you want to posses him. Pierre stands in your way. Anatole admires and adores you but goodness knows the boy can get attached. Pierre was his first in a lot of ways and he can’t just forget that. You know that Pierre is your biggest competition for Anatole’s attention and now that he is rich – even more so.”

 

Fyodor watches her, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t enjoy hearing it, but Helene is a perceptive woman and she has known him for far too long. She has him figured out and he _hates_ it, but knows she is right. “Alright. How do we do this?”

 

*~*

 

“You’re a scoundrel, Dolokhov, and I challenge you!” Pierre shouts, staring him down with dark eyes that are narrowed and dimmed with frothing anger.

 

Fyodor regards his opponent with a steady, patronizing gaze and smirks mockingly at Pierre over the brim of his glass. “I accept,” he says quietly, noticing the way the Rostov boy sat next to him tenses up.

 

Pierre, still riled, pushes back his chair with a force that knocks it over, and runs for the stairs, anxious to leave the English Club behind and hide from the world in the peace of his own bedroom.

 

“You shouldn’t have goaded him so, Fyodor,” Denisov reproaches, shaking his head.

 

Fyodor tilts his head at him. “So you are refusing to be my second?”

 

“I’ll be your second!” Nikolai puts in excitedly.

 

Fyodor puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder and nods, still keeping eye contact with Denisov.

 

“I’ll be your _witness_ ,” Denisov says wearily. He glances at Nikolai helplessly. “You shouldn’t get involved, there’s no need.”

 

“Leave the boy be,” Fyodor urges with a smirk, giving Nikolai’s shoulder a tight squeeze. The boy beams.

 

“I will go speak with Bezukhov’s second.” Nikolai jumps from his seat and goes off with a spring in his step that Fyodor can’t help but smile at condescendingly. He remembers himself at that age – he’d been similarly idealistic.

 

“What are you doing this for?” Denisov asks quietly, reproachfully. “There isn’t anything between you and Helene. I know better than to believe that.”

 

Fyodor raises his eyebrows at him in askance. “He is the one who challenged me. I never said that there was anything between the Countess and I. In fact, you could even say that I’m defending her…hmm, _honor_.”

 

*

 

“Aren’t you frightened at all?” Nikolai asks as he and Fyodor finally make their way out of the English Club late in the night after a night of music and drink.

 

Fyodor stops and looks carefully at Nikolai. They had met in the army but are not very close. Nikolai is young and idealistic, dark haired and dark eyed, well off but far from flamboyant. Fyodor finds him pleasant and even sweet. “I’ll tell you the secret about dueling,” he says slowly, lighting a smoke and offering Nikolai one. “If you are going to fight a duel and you make a will and write tender letters to your parents and your lover and are sure you will be killed – you will be killed. Simply go in with a firm determination to kill your man as quickly and efficiently as possible so you can be done with the whole affair. Then everything will work out.”

 

Nikolai looks at him with wide, impressed eyes. “You’re something else aren’t you,” he says with a slight hint of awe in his voice.

 

Fyodor smirks and puts out the smoke, stepping off the Club porch. “Until tomorrow, _mon cher_.”

 

*

 

As Fyodor stands in the Sokolniky woods facing Pierre and waiting for their seconds to finish setting the barriers, he thinks of how easily his and Helene’s plans han come to fruition. Jealous tongues had done most of the work for them. Living in Pierre’s house and seeing the changes for the worst – toward the same conservative, self-righteous, snobbish attitudes as all rich fools have – in the boy, raised in Fyodor an even greater dislike. He hated Anatole’s attachment to Pierre, disliked Pierre himself and felt a cold contempt toward the boy’s obvious hero worship of Andrei Bolkonski. It is almost ironic that his duel with Pierre will take place at the same location as his duel with Bolkonski all those years ago.

 

“Perhaps…you don’t have to do this?” Nikolai asks hesitantly, looking uncertainly at him. Dolokhov can tell the boy is frightened for him. “I know Bezukhov isn’t worth anything as a shot but accidents…”

 

“No. No apologies, none whatsoever,” Fyodor says firmly, taking the pistol Nikolai is holding out to him. He hears Denisov’s count and begins to walk forward on three. Pierre is stumbling all over the place and Fyodor waits for him to even out so he can have a clearer shot...

 

He hears the report before the pain sets in and his mind can process what has happened. Fyodor stumbles to the barrier and falls to his knees at the sword. He hears Nikolai shouting his name and the crunching of the snow as the boy rushes to him. “It’s not over yet,” he growls, fighting the pain and the nausea. His head spins and he can’t see clearly, not to mention steady his hand. “Please…to the…to the barrier!” he shouts at Pierre who obliges with stumbling steps and wide, horrified eyes

 

Fyodor gulps down a mouthful of snow. The blood from his side soaks his shirt and the glove that he has put over it to try and quell the bleeding as much as possible. He aims and pulls the trigger with vicious force, cursing Pierre and his money and his influence on Anatole and his damn good luck… The shot misses. “Damn it.”

 

He falls to the snow – it stings cold against his feverishly hot skin. He has the most absurd vision of Anatole making a snow angel and laughing as he is hit by one snowball and then another, first in the stomach, then in the face. _That had been not so far from here_ , Fyodor thinks dazedly as his head begins to swim. Nikolai is calling his name and there are other voices, words that he can not quite understand. He tries to make out the phrases but falls into darkness before anything conclusive comes to mind.

 

*~*

 

The fever and delirium are the worst part. Fyodor gets used to the pain quickly and almost doesn’t notice it after the first week unless it is suddenly worsened by a careless movement or the disturbance of changing bandages. He goes through waves of chills and heat that intermix and mingle. He worries about his mother and how upset it must make her to see him like this and asks Galina every time she comes in with soup, tea, or medicine whether Mother is alright. His sister is always gentle, her replies tempered and her hands cool on his feverish skin.

 

“Hush, don’t talk,” she says, smiling affectionately. “Mother will be best once you recover.”

 

Fyodor feels guilty before them but doesn’t regret the duel. His dreams are unsettled and messy, unsure and sometimes so brilliantly colored that he wakes with a headache, Anatole is in many of them and Fyodor wakes saying the boy’s name over and over again, searching for him in the dimly lit room. He wants that smile and those beautiful grey eyes. He wants to run his hands through silky, fair hair and to be kissed gently and rapturously.

 

Once, he wakes up to those grey eyes and reaches out to pull the boy to him but finds his hand caught in a soft, lilac glove. Helene. She speaks softly, saying that all will be well and she doesn’t blame him for anything. Their plans went awry but then, when things seem too perfect to be true they usually are. He asks about Anatole, forcing the words past chapped lips and she shakes her head. “He’s with the army.” Fyodor fancies dictating to Nikolai a letter for Anatole but thinks it better to wait until he is well. Then thinks better of it, realizing that Helene would most likely write to Anatole anyway. But Anatole doesn’t come and he doesn’t even write. By the time Fyodor is well enough to write himself, he feels far too offended by Anatole’s silence to bother. He is upset and bitter, wondering if Anatole had thought to take Pierre’s side in the affair. He feels abandoned, like Anatole had taken him for granted, had farced around with him while it was convenient only to disappear when he was needed. The fact that Helene might have never written to her brother for one female reason or another, never crosses him mind. 

 

Nikolai, unlike Anatole, is always there. He almost never stays for the night except for the first few days, which Fyodor does not remember, but he spends his days there. At first, Fyodor is hardly aware of this. His thoughts are in drift and his delirium carries him to Anatole and he loses himself in those imaginations. When he recovers some sense, Nikolai becomes a constant companion and comfort. He is there to listen to his infuriated tirades at the world and to hold his hand when the pain gets bad, and to talk of nonsense for cheap entertainment. They grow strangely close and Fyodor finds himself taking his first recovering steps leaning on Nikolai’s arm.  

 

“You’re pushing yourself, I think,” Nikolai says once, helping Fyodor into an armchair on the porch at a small tea table and sitting opposite him as they are served the midday tea.

 

“Lying around is doing no good for me,” Fyodor insists, looking at Nikolai closely. “Besides, you’re probably tired of hanging around a convalescent all the time.”

 

Nikolai blushes and looks down, studying the small flowers on the tablecloth. “I don’t mind,” he says, blushing even more once the words are out. “I’d be with you regardless and never get tired.”

 

Fyodor’s expression is something between a smirk and a smile. The boy is adorable and naïve but endlessly sweet. He had been there for him countless times and Fyodor can still hear the whispered, comforting words and feel the soothing touches on his face. “Well, I wouldn’t have expected it.”

 

“I’m not Anatole.”

 

Fyodor looks up sharply, the spoon, with which he had been mixing sugar into his tea, stills mid swirl. “What?”

 

“Anatole. I’m not sure who he is but you said his name a lot when you were very ill. I guess he never came around.” Nikolai finally forces himself to look up, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with embarrassment and excitement. “But I’m not like that.”

 

Fyodor pretends to have a flash of pain from his wound so that he doesn’t have to explain away any emotions that might appear on his face as thoughts of Anatole crowd him mind. He is ashamed at his own weakness, of how much he had wanted Anatole to be there with him and to hold him. He had somehow managed to get attached to Anatole’s gentleness and to his radiant, infectious happiness. Now he is paying the price, learning the hard way a lesson he should have learned long ago – in the end, people don’t come through. “Let’s not talk about that,” he says finally, looking down at Nikolai who has come to kneel before him, looking up into his face with concern and tenderness.

 

Nikolai nods quickly. “Alright. What is it? Is the pain worse again?”

 

Fyodor puts a hand against the boy’s cheek and Nikolai turns his head to kiss his palm, lingering for a moment. When he pulls back, his eyes are downcast and his ears have turned red. Fyodor laughs softly and smiles down at the boy with half-tenderness and half-condescendence.

 

*~*

 

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

 

Nikolai shakes his head mutely. His linen undershirt is hanging open and his boots are off. He is perched on Fyodor’s bed looking vulnerable and nervous.

 

Fyodor reaches over and puts out the candle on the windowsill before shrugging off his own shift and sliding Nikolai’s down his shoulders until the boy shrugs it off. “You did lock the door, right?”

 

“Mmm-hhhmmm,” Nikolai hums, kissing the side of Fyodor’s neck and running his hands over the older man’s chest. His hands find the fresh scar on Fyodor’s side. The area is still tender but the wound has finally closed completely. He leans up and cups Fyodor’s face in his hands, kissing his lips. His eyes are radiant, full of complete happiness and adoration.

 

Fyodor allows Nikolai to caress him for a few moments, lingering in the kisses and allowing himself to be loved. He finally pushes Nikolai onto his back and relieves both of them of their pants. Nikolai pants heavily, instantly erect, his movements feverish. Fyodor takes the boy slowly, taking care to not hurt him but Nikolai still cries out at the initial discomfort, his scream muffled by a pillow. Fyodor nuzzles his hair and kisses away his tears which Nikolai does his best to hide. He whispers useless endearments like “darling” and Nikolai replies in kind, his moans heavy and erotic against Fyodor’s ears.

 

When Fyodor finally comes, he bites his lip hard, until it bleeds, as not to cry out Anatole’s name.

 

*

 

They lie in each others arms, tangled and spent from the sex. Nikolai’s head is on Fyodor’s shoulder and Dolokhov has taken to smoking, sending a light, white stream of smoke out the open window. “There are two kinds of people. Useful and useless. Most are useless. I hate all of them. But those I love, I love so that I would give my life for them,” Fyodor says, his arm tightening slightly against Nikolai’s warm body. “I have an amazing mother and a loving sister and two or three close friends – you included – and the rest I would strangle if they got in my way.”

 

Nikolai turns his head and kisses Fyodor’s shoulder blade once, then again. “I love you,” he murmurs quietly. Fyodor strokes the boy’s hair but doesn’t say a thing.    

 

*~*

 

It’s snowing for the first time in several days, just in time for Christmas Eve. The small Christmas tree in the Dolokhov sitting room is tastefully, though simply, decorated with balls, ribbons, garlands, and candles. Fyodor stands at the fireplace, watching as Galina puts the star on top of the tree. She turns to him with a smile and puts out her hands. He walks to her and takes her hands. “Will you be home tonight?”

 

“Yes. I promised Nikolai to be at his place for dinner, but I will be home after that.”

 

“He’s a nice man – Nikolai. He seems to really care for you.”

 

Fyodor nods absentmindedly. “He does, I think.”

 

“What’s on your mind?” Galina can always sense his moods. She watches his face as he turns away and walks to the window, watching the falling snow, forehead pressed against the glass. Fyodor takes out the folded letter that had come the other day from his breast pocket and looks at it mournfully. “Who is it from,” Galina presses.

 

“Anatole.”

 

She frowns slightly. “Anatole? What does he say? Why did he never write until now?”

 

“He says he didn’t know about the duel. That he just found out after returning to Perersburg. Says he’s on his way to Moscow and that he hopes I am well… I don’t know if I should believe him or not.”

 

Galina walks to his side and takes the letter. She unfolds it carefully and reads. “What does your heart say?” she asks, looking up at him after a moment.

 

Fyodor scoffs. “What does my heart have to do with it?”

 

“Everything. You either believe him, believe that he loves you, or you don’t. You should trust your heart more often, Fedia. You rely too much on your head. That is where the problem lies.”

 

Fyodor turns to her, meaning to snap an abrasive retort – something about only fools trusting their hearts – but on seeing her open, earnest face and loving eyes, relents and deflates. “I don’t know. It is about time I went. I don’t want to keep the Rostovs waiting.”

 

*

 

By the time Fyodor returns home from Nikolai’s, it is dark and the only light on the porch comes from the dimly lit windows of the hallway. Fyodor hands his horse to a servant boy, patting the mare on the neck lightly before heading through the gate. The snowstorm from earlier has lessened but large snowflakes still sparkle and silhouette occasionally against the window.  

 

As he nears the porch, Fyodor begins to make out the shape of someone sitting in the dark on the steps leading up, head down and all curled into a ball. He stops for a moment and peers into the darkness. The boy lifts his head and Fyodor recognizes the face, even though he can barely make out the features. “Anatole.”

 

“I told your mother and sister I’d wait outside,” he says quietly. “You don’t know how sorry I am for not being here when everything was happening.”

 

“Why weren’t you?” Fyodor attempts to keep up his defenses, tone cold and distant. “If leave is now so hard to get, you could have at least written.”

 

“I didn’t know. On the periphery… news are scant. You never wrote, or your sister…” Anatole stands and takes a step toward him. Fyodor wants to take a step back but forces himself to not move, to not let Anatole see how emotionally effected he’d been by the whole thing.

 

“Are you saying Helene didn’t write you?”

 

“She never told me. She didn’t want to worry me and she didn’t want to have to explain. I’m so sorry that she got you involved in her schemes…If I had been here—“

 

“Well, you weren’t,” Fyodor cuts off bitterly. “But someone else was.”

 

“Who?”

 

“His name is Nikolai. I was just with him.”

 

Anatole looks down, hanging his head. “Of course, I understand. I only… I drove here as fast as I could once I found out. I just wanted to see you, make sure you were alright. I know you don’t forgive easily so I don’t expect…” Anatole cuts off and rubs both hands over his face. He stumbles down the steps and shoulders past Fyodor, making his way to the gate.

 

“I missed you.”

 

Anatole stops dead, one hand on the gate. He stands with his back to Fyodor, not daring to speak or move.

 

“A lot. That’s why it hurts that you weren’t here.”

 

Anatole turns slowly and Fyodor can just barely make out the tear stains on his cheeks. “I swear to you,” Anatole starts, his voice hoarse and choked. “I swear to you that had I known I would have gone to you that very moment.”

 

Fyodor holds out a hand to him and Anatole practically runs to him, wrapping both arms around Fyodor’s neck and pressing his face into the older man’s shoulder. Anatole is trembling and Fyodor folds him up into an embrace, both arms securely wrapped around his waist. “I thought you had taken Pierre’s side,” Fyodor says quietly against Anatole’s ear.

 

Anatole shakes his head vigorously. “Never!” he gasps, pulling away just enough to look up into Fyodor’s beautiful, clear blue eyes. They are out of the light of the windows, drowned in a deep, long shadow but the snow gives off just enough light for them to make out each others faces when they are centimeters apart.

 

Fyodor leans down and kisses Anatole’s mouth. Both of their lips are cold and they hurry to catch the warmth of each others mouths. Fyodor slides one hand under Anatole’s hat and through his hair, nearly moaning at the familiar feeling of silky hair under his fingers. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, breathing in the familiar scent that is Anatole and only Anatole. When they pull back for air, Fyodor looks into Anatole’s crystal grey eyes, into the vulnerable face of the boy in his arms, and raises a hand to touch his cold cheek where the tears have frozen. Fyodor kisses away the remaining tears, unfreezing them with the heat of his mouth, tasting salt. He hates to see Anatole upset, longing to see the boy’s smile. Anatole’s hands slide over his shoulders and up his neck, cupping his face. Anatole kisses Fyodor’s closed eyes and rubs their noses together gently, allowing a soft giggle to escape his slightly parted lips.

 

“Can I come back to you?” Anatole asks, childishly, uncertainly and Fyodor suddenly has a flash of Anatole in his childhood. Anatole with the flu and Anatole after his first riding accident. He is really the same child, the same darling boy, just older and more enchanting. Not some cold, distant, unattainable Prince. Anatole needs to be held and reassured and loved. He is careless, sure, but that’s because he is foolish. Fyodor can deal with that, just to be able to always hold onto the boy and maybe next time Anatole won’t be so far away and will hold him too. 

 

“I wasn’t aware you ever left,” Fyodor murmurs against his lips, a smirk growing steadily on his lips.

 

Anatole’s face lights up and Fyodor is drowned in that light. “I love you,” Anatole whispers before they kiss.

 

“Swear to me that you will never leave.’

 

“I swear!” Anatole says instantly, looking earnest. “I swear. On my life. I—God, I would die without you. When I was told you almost died…just the thought made me ill. Fedia, _mon cheri_ , I love you.” Anatole presses his forehead to Fyodor’s as though trying to share his feelings and thoughts through that touch.

 

Fyodor has a brief thought of Nikolai and how sweet the boy had been to him and how peaceful their summer and autumn together had been. But one more look into Anatole’s open, radiant face is enough to convince him that Nikolai was a substitute, a place holder to take up time while he waited on the real thing. Fyodor pulls Anatole closer into the protective circle of his arms as though to shield from everything in the world, vowing that now this boy would be his, forever, no matter what. “And I you.”

 

*

 

Fyodor Dolokhov does not trust easily and there are very few people he truly loves but those he does love he loves unconditionally.

**Author's Note:**

> 1: ...I can’t wait to see all of you, but I will most likely be delayed for a week, maybe slightly longer. I think I will stop in Moscow and visit with a couple of old friends. Tell Papa to not worry. I will not get into any trouble. I can’t wait to see you!  
> Love,  
> Anatole
> 
> \--
> 
> To be continued? There certainly is plenty of canon left not-covered. Like the gap between the end here and the Natasha Fiasco, the Summer Before The War, and the war itself, Borodino... ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Happy Yuletide!


End file.
